Song to the Siren
by M. D. Hazel
Summary: The Memorial Arc. The Autobots grieve for their human friends. Chapter IV: Memory, of utmost importance.
1. Chapter 1

Song to the Siren: Memorial Arc I

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><p><strong><em>Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you. <em>**

**_Did I dream you dreamed about me? _**

**_Were you here when I was full sail?_**

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><p>He realized it had been years since he had set foot in a hospital as the front doors swished open upon his arrival, buffeting him with that sterile, unique smell. Walking through the quiet halls, his footsteps echoing dully, he found that it really didn't bother him like it used to, the scent. Right now it seemed nothing more than a faint mark on his memory.<p>

He gently shifted the vase of lilies he carried in his arms to press the button on the elevator, sighing to himself as the doors closed and he was lifted to the fourth floor. Stepping out, he turned several corners before finally arriving at the room number that he had committed to memory. The door was open slightly, dim light filtering from the room and into the hallway and he stepped in, knocking softly so as not to disturb the room's occupant.

A frail looking woman, close to the age of eighty with snow white hair, brown eyes and a mischievous grin looked up at the sound. When she spotted him, she smiled broadly, and he could not help but smile back as he stepped completely inside.

"You came," she said.

"Of course," he responded, placing the vase of lilies he had been carrying on the table at the end of the bed. He had picked them specifically and the look of utter gratitude that she gave him only further reminded him that they were her favorite.

"You haven't changed at all," she said, almost wistfully.

"Neither have you," he said softly, sitting in the chair beside the bed, careful to avoid all the machines and cords that created their own maze in the small, private room.

"Oh, now don't you start with the flattery," she chuckled, her voice cracking slightly. He was alarmed by how weak it sounded, but he could easily recognize her own timbre through the feeble overtones that shadowed it. She patted him on the hand, careful not to dislodge the I.V. in her vein. "The last time you saw me, I had about fifty percent less wrinkles and still had color in my hair.

"You are as lovely now as you were then," he said softly.

"You always were a ladies man."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he responded, smiling slightly.

"Oh, come on," the woman responded, laughter in her eyes. "You can't tell me that you don't know that all the women on base were swooning over you constantly."

He feigned surprise, his eyes wide, and she smacked at his arm weakly, laughing.

An hour later saw them carrying on in much the same manner, exchanging stories and memories, catching up on recent events. He was much pleased to see that even though her body had succumbed to the call of old age, her mind was as sharp as ever. She told him all about her family, her children, grandchildren, great grand children, dozens of great nieces and nephews. He listened raptly, a soft look in his eyes as she pointed them out in the many photos that sat in frames upon the various tables in the room. He told her of his comrades, how their antics had not changed, told her of those who had come recently to join their ranks and their long, slow progression along the road go regaining everything they had lost.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked, after several moments of companionable silence.

"Anything."

"Are you afraid of death?"

He supposed he was not surprised by the question, although he had to think about it for several moments before he answered. "I do not fear death," he said honestly, meeting her eyes. "I only fear what I might leave behind."

"That is wise," she responded, coughing slightly. The sound, though subtle, alarmed him for an inexplicable reason. "Why am I not surprised, coming from you?"

He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. It made her giddy to know that, for all his wisdom and knowledge and stoic demeanor, she could still make him blush.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, sounding sad for the first time since his arrival.

"No," she said. "I am not afraid to die after a life so well-lived."

A sad smile dawned across his features and he ducked his head for a moment. "Well lived, indeed."

"I should thank you for that."

"You have lived long," he whispered, "You have seen much, accomplished much in your life. You have every right to be proud, with or without my presence in it all."

She folded her hands in her lap, rolling his words around in her mind. With laughter in her eyes, she replied finally, "Don't ever get old, Optimus."

"I am already old," he reminded her with a small smile.

"I suppose you're right. But you know what I mean."

"Yes."

"Will you stay? Just for tonight?"

If he was surprised by the question, he hid it well. "If that is what you desire."

"Please," she smiled, and he could tell that she was fighting the sleep that had wanted to creep up on her. "It's just that getting old can sometimes be lonely. Tonight is... not the night for loneliness."

"Alright," he said. "I will stay right here. Rest well."

"Optimus," she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed as she fell into sleep's warm embrace. "Thank you."

Optimus smiled softly, wrapping gentle fingers around her hand and squeezing it comfortingly. "You are most welcome, Mikaela."

After she had fallen silent and her breathing became shallow, Optimus stood from the chair, walked quietly to the large window and allowed his thoughts to drift. He thought heavily on their human comrades, mostly of Sam and Mikaela, and their bravery in the battle at Mission City, Egypt, and beyond. Through everything, the humans of N.E.S.T. had stayed by their side, risking life and limb to help them, never wavering in their support. They had forged a strong bond over the years, and had become something of a multi-species family, relying on each other, trusting each other. He could never forget the trust that Sam and Mikaela had placed in him every day, from moments as ordinary as driving them to school to those as extraordinary as falling off of a building into his waiting hands. He could never forget, and he never wanted to.

"Thank _you_," he whispered into the pale light of the room. A response did not come, and he had not expected one. He turned back to the window, gazing out upon the streets below, shimmering beneath the street lights. He watched the humans walking to and fro and could not help but smile sadly to himself.

The human life was a short, fragile and yet brilliant thing all at once, filled with strong emotions, spontaneous decisions and personal wonder. There were times when he envied how fiercely the humans lived, how passionately they loved, how adamantly they defended and how gracefully they died.

Settling his holoform back into the chair, he held Mikaela's hand, the monitors announcing that she had fallen into slumber through the even beats of her heart. Leaning back slightly, he shut his eyes and allowed himself to fall into recharge in his holoform.

His fluxes were slow, and more peaceful than they had been in many cycles. They were filled with images of many years past, when they had first arrived on Earth. Mikaela and Sam, still younglings… the look of wonder upon their faces when they met for the first time. The slow progression of friendship…The innocent smiles they had offered him, their overdramatic exasperation at his lack of knowledge pertaining to their culture, their laughter.

He saw Mikaela, as she was when she was young, and as she always would be; fiery, sharp-witted and caring with a keen sense of right and wrong. She had persevered through a hard adolescence and had not let it dictate her path in life. Fierce and beautiful, even as she aged, she had never changed, had never let her beauty go to her head, had been one of the most selfless beings that Optimus had ever known. He admired her, perhaps more than anyone, and also perhaps more than she would ever know. A small smile stole across his features, even in recharge, unknowing that a similar smile had spread across the face of the woman who lay in the bed next to where he sat.

She was at peace.

He awoke the next morning to find that something precious had slipped gently away in the night.

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><p><strong><span>Author's Note:<span>** The title and the bit of lyrics at the top are from the piece Song to the Siren by This Mortal Coil. The overtone of the song was key inspiration in this story. If you are interested, here is a link to the song; youtube. com/watch?v=SmZ5HEaVMjA


	2. Chapter 2

Song to the Siren: Memorial Arc II

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><p><strong><em>There is no comfort, no bandage, no salve or healer for the death of one who died too young but for the promise of reunion in the next world.<em> –** Anonymous

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><p>An accident, they said.<p>

A truck, whose driver had been on the road for far too long without rest, they said. Dead on the scene, they said. It had been mercifully quick.

They said.

He could not bring himself to think about the manner in which the small human, who lay pale and still on the berth before him, had died. Not after everything that they had all been through, everything that the lively organic being had survived. Now, this?

Fate was cruel, indeed.

Massive Cybertronian hands gripped the berth in equal parts frustration and anguish, leaving large craters on the formerly pristine edge. Upon receiving word of the accident, they had all come to consensus and demanded that the body be shipped back to base… back to home, so that the family, both Autobot and human – children, spouse, parents, comrades and friends of the deceased could mourn and provide the ceremony that the human deserved. A high-honor military ceremony.

_Funeral_, the humans called it.

He immediately loathed the word.

"You deserved a longer life," he said, his voice echoing uncomfortably in the silent room. "You, as much as anyone, deserved to watch your younglings grow and have offspring of their own. They are so young now, to be without you. Too young."

He reached out, the metal of his hand hovering briefly over the familiar face, merely inches from the skin. No heat. No life. He flinched away.

"You were the first human most of us had contact with. Despite how much we may have teased you for how you appeared that first night, we were truly impressed by you. You are… were a wonderful representative of your race. They should be proud."

He sighed. "Samuel, for a long time you were the only human that I trusted. Even before the friendship between Mikaela and I developed, I knew that you had a strong spirit," he said, choosing to look at the ceiling now instead of the lifeless form before him. "You did not appear the most intelligent or capable, at first. But you showed us over time how wrong we were about that. You were young. Just an awkward kid."

"I feel the need to apologize for my rather large cultural… _blunder_ upon meeting you for the first time," he said, and humor that felt hollow colored his voice. "I never really had the opportunity to tell you. My intent was not to embarrass you. But it seems to have turned out, regardless."

"Normally I shy away from sorrow," Ratchet said suddenly, shaking his head. "Being a medic that has seen two wars, I cannot afford to allow myself to grieve for everyone that I would like, including friends."

There was silence for a moment, and bright optics turned from the ceiling to finally look at the form on the table. "You are one of the first in many, many cycles...," Ratchet said softly, drawing a deep gust of air into his intakes. "That I have needed to stop and mourn for."

"I have almost forgotten how."

Finally, he reached out again, laying the tip of a large finger gently on the dark tuft of hair and drawing it down to rest on the pale cheek.

"Don't worry about Mikaela," Ratchet said, his voice finally breaking. "I will take care of her."

He hoped, perhaps more than anything he had ever hoped for in his long existence, that they would all meet again, in the place, whatever place it was, that waited for them after death. As he stood from the berth and made his way out of the back room and into the medbay proper to see to Mikaela and her children, Ratchet believed in the depths of his spark that they would.

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><p>Author's Note: Thanks to Soului for her suggestion to continue this one. The idea struck me, but I'd never given it much thought until she mentioned it in a review. This, like several other fics of mine, seems to be doomed to continue against my original intent. ;)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Song to the Siren: Memorial Arc II

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><p><em><strong>Now that you're far away<br>I can see everything so clear.  
>Now that you've really gone<br>I can feel it,  
>Like you're standing here.<strong>_

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><p>"Cancer can happen to anyone," Will had explained shortly after the diagnosis. He had said that it was not always preventable, nor was it always detectable in time.<p>

Ironhide had not understood, at first. They had given his charge – _his _charge – a year, possibly more to live. Ironhide, stubborn as he was, had not accepted it. It took nearly three months for him to come down from his initial angry disbelief. This on its own was bad enough, he thought, but what was more… After several unsuccessful treatments meant to delay the onslaught of the disease, the doctor had called the Lennox family to him with a new projection. Ironhide had elected to stay behind that day, giving the excuse that the Lennox home needed to be guarded while they were in town. Really, it was just that he needed time to think and that he didn't want to hear the undoubtedly bad news from some haughty human in a white coat offering sugary sweet, false sympathy.

Ironhide could tell how tired Lennox was, not only from the fact that Sarah had driven the two of them home, but from the way that he held onto the car door for support as he hauled himself up from the seat. Manifesting a hard light holo, Ironhide strode over to the former Colonel, taking his elbow and helping him up to the porch without so much as a word between them. Will sunk to the bench there, rather than continuing on to the door, with a grateful sigh. He gave his wife a meaningful look and Sarah, her pale skin standing out in stark relief against the redness of her eyes, merely nodded at them both before walking inside and shutting the door softly behind her.

"William," Ironhide said, as he sat down beside his charge. "How long?"

"Not long now, they say," Will sighed heavily, knowing exactly what it was the Weapons Specialist was asking. "Two, three weeks, maybe."

"That is… not long," Ironhide said, his processor stuttering in tandem with his spark.

"I know," Will sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face, pale with fatigue. "Nothing to do now but wait."

"Nothing can be done?" Ironhide demanded, standing suddenly and pacing across the porch, concentrating on the wood as it creaked and groaned under his heavy footsteps. "They're stopping treatment?"

"It's just not working, 'Hide."

"They're just giving up? _You're_ just giving up?" Ironhide spat, disgusted with himself even as the words left his mouth. He couldn't help it. He never had handled emotions well.

"Sometimes there's nothing for it, but to retreat," Will said, his tone placating, speaking in terms that he hoped the Weapons Specialist would understand. "We tried, 'Hide. We did."

"How can that be all?" Ironhide said despondently, all of the fight leaving him in a rush as he sunk to the bench beside Will. "They first said twelve months…"

"Don't worry about it, bud," Will said, patting the larger man on the shoulder. "Everything is taken care of. Have known this was coming for a while now."

"Taken care of?"

"Yes. Financially, I mean. Plenty in savings, the house and vehicles are paid off, lots left over for the rest of Annabelle's college tuition and plenty for Sarah to live on comfortably."

"What will happen from here?"

"Well," Will said slowly, adjusting his position stiffly. "They are going to send a homecare nurse, I suppose, when things get to the point where… Well, toward the end. I'll be allowed to stay here, at home."

"You're not going back to the hospital?" Ironhide asked, hopeful. He hated that place.

"No," Will said. "No point. Not when I can live out the rest of my days at home, just as comfortably. I'd rather be here surrounded by people I love."

"That is… good, I suppose."

"Just promise me you'll keep an eye on Sarah and 'Bell after I've gone."

"You have my word," Ironhide said, honored that Lennox would entrust him with such an important duty.

"The kid came by to see me the other day, when you were out with Sarah," Lennox said, and Ironhide did not have to ask who 'the kid' was; he knew it was Sam.

"What did he have to say?"

"Little squirt's third baby was born last week. Another girl."

Ironhide shook his head good naturedly. "That's all we need. More spawn from Sam and Mikaela's blood line runnin' around."

Will laughed, seemingly undeterred by the coughs it sent rippling through his chest, because he hadn't quite stopped chuckling when he said "You know you love them, 'Hide. More kids for you to babysit. I'm sure you've gotten bored since Annabelle has grown up."

"Bah," Ironhide huffed, crossing thick arms across his chest and attempting to replace the small smile quirking at his lips with an angry scowl. They sat in companionable silence for several moments, breathing fresh air, both swimming in their own thoughts.

"Do you ever feel old, 'Hide?" Will asked.

"Every day, William," the warrior sighed. "Every day."

"Well stop it."

Ironhide looked at him in surprise. "Stop what?"

"Feeling old," Will said. "It don't help anything, just makes you think about dying and how, when and where it'll happen."

"You can _be_ old without _feeling_ old," Will continued when the Weapons Specialist just stared at him. "And God knows, you're older than dirt."

Ironhide did laugh then, mostly because that statement, no matter how much it was meant to be a lighthearted jab, was probably true. He _was_ old, even by Cybertronian standards – which made him _ancient _by the standards set by the incredibly short human lifespan. He was, probably literally, older than the dirt that covered this planet.

Ironhide sighed.

Annabelle, who Will had once been able to bounce on his knee while she giggled and squealed happily, was fully grown and out on her own in the world, fending for herself. Ironhide could not stop a mental wince. How fast the humans lived. How short. Merely a tiny fraction of Cybertronian life. He wondered now, as he often did, how the humans managed to accomplish everything they did with the short amount of time allotted to them.

"What happens to your kind after they die?" Ironhide asked suddenly, giving his companion a hard, yet curious look.

"Well, we believe something similar to what you guys believe. You call it the 'Well of All Sparks,'" Will said, folding his hands over his chest and staring out past the porch at the clouds building on the horizon. "We call it Heaven."

"And what do you do in Heaven?"

Will smiled to himself, partly because he was thinking about the answer to Ironhide's question, but mostly because it was Ironhide himself that had asked it. He caught the Weapon's Specialist's eyes and answered, "You watch."

"Watch?"

"Yeah. You sit, and you watch your loved ones on Earth. You watch them play, you watch them grow, you watch them succeed, until they are ready to come join you."

Ironhide snorted. "That sounds boring."

Will did not respond, only smiled. He did not miss the thoughtful gleam that came over the other man's eyes.

Several weeks later, after the on-base memorial, Ironhide sat alone on the outskirts of the base, mulling things over in his processor. His spark grieved for his longtime friend, comrade and charge, but he felt something else stirring in his chassis, faint among the sorrow, but tangible. It was almost as if a soft warmth had subtly worked its way over his entire frame, making him resist the urge to shiver it off.

He could not shake the feeling that someone was watching him from afar.


	4. Chapter 4

Song to the Siren: Memorial Arc IV

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><p><em><strong>Watching a peaceful death of a human being reminds us of a falling star; one of a million lights in a vast sky that flares up for a brief moment only to disappear into the endless night forever. <strong>_

_- Elisabeth Kübler-Ross_

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><p>He couldn't quite put a name to all the feelings he experienced upon walking into the building that evening. A small tinge of nervousness and apprehension, and yet a slightly exhilarating bolt of familiarity warred together in his mind, hidden behind a neutral face. The bright yellow of his jacket and the blond of his holoform's hair stood out in sharp relief against the white and neutral tones of the front lobby. People didn't stare here, at least not like they did in other places.<p>

He walked past the lobby and through several long, empty, bland corridors before coming to the room number he had memorized. A paper sign posted on the door at eye level read, in messy scrawl "_Knock LOUDLY_."

He did.

The voice that answered him hadn't changed since he had last heard it, those years ago.

"Come _in_!" it said, sounding impatient. Typical.

Bumblebee pushed the door open gently, the eyes of his holo settling on the form sitting across the room in a wheelchair, situated next to the window he was currently staring out of. Surprisingly, the man had not changed very much, apart from many more wrinkles and now-gray hair. The sarcastic and slightly mad (Bumblebee thought) light to his eyes had not diminished with age at all, and the scout found that he was somewhat comforted by that fact.

The elderly man turned, opening his mouth as if to tell Bumblebee off, but stopped short when he caught sight of just who it was that was standing in his doorway, interrupting his thoughts. His mouth fell open, slack, and he stared.

"_You_," he said. Bumblebee barely contained a wince.

"Hello, Agent Simmons."

Simmons blinked. "No one has called me that in a _long_ time."

Bumblebee stepped forward cautiously, shutting the door softly behind him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I…" Bumblebee hesitated, his eyes darting down to study his sneakers. "I came to see you. They told me you were here, and that you were… not doing well."

"I'm nearly ninety years old, what did you expect?" Simmons made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough, shaking his head. "_Who_ told you?"

"Director Mearing's successor."

"Right," Simmons rolled his eyes. "Of course. Well, may as well take a seat."

Bumblebee shuffled forward, somewhat awkwardly, and took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Simmons tilted a gray eyebrow. "I don't bite," he insisted. "At least not any more. Need teeth for that."

Bumblebee narrowly kept himself from laughing in surprise. Human anatomy was so _disturbing_.

"How are they doing?" Simmons asked, and when Bumblebee looked at him questioningly, he elaborated rather impatiently with "The kid's … kids. And his _criminal _girlfriend?"

It had been said in the exact same inflection, Bumblebee realized, as the first time he'd heard it those decades ago. There was a fondness in Simmons' eyes, however, when he said it now that there hadn't been then. Bee smiled understandingly. "Mikaela and her children are doing very well. She just sent her oldest daughter off to college last week. Harvard."

Simmons nodded, swallowing heavily. "Why am I not surprised?"

"They're a very intelligent family."

"And probably good at extortion, no doubt."

Bumblebee chuckled lightly, shaking his head and choosing not to comment.

"It's… a pity that he died so young," Simmons sighed, his brows knit together in a frown.

The scout closed his eyes, obviously still pained by the untimely death of his human charge. "Yes. But… I know for a fact that Sam would not have wanted to grow old and decrepit while _we_… while the _Autobots_ moved on without him."

"Understandable."

Bumblebee made a noncommittal noise, staring steadily out the window.

"Why did you come?" Simmons asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?" the blonde responded, turning his gaze back to the elderly human in front of him.

"Out of everyone I expected to be here," Simmons rasped, "I didn't expect it to be one of the N.B.E.s… Especially not you."

"Why not?"

"You pissed on me."

"Sorry about that," Bumblebee said, trying to sound sincere and failing spectacularly. "But you deserved it."

"Maybe so, but still," Simmons shook his finger at the scout, eyes narrowing in his typical fashion. "Was _rude_."

"You started it."

"I was doing my job."

"Horribly, by the way," Bumblebee shot back casually, ducking out of the way as Simmons swatted at him weakly. They sat in companionable silence for several moments, before Simmons spoke up again.

"You'll remember me, won't you?"

"Of course I will," Bumblebee said, somewhat taken aback.

"Good. At least someone will," Simmons replied, settling back into his pillow with a sigh and a small smile. "Good, too, that it's an N.B.E. that will probably live _forever_."

"Nobody lives forever," Bumblebee said.

"Ain't that the truth."

"Yes. But there are plenty of your kind that have lived on through memories and legends, for centuries after they have passed."

Simmons appeared to contemplate this for a moment. He closed his eyes, drawing a long, rattling breath. "I… I'm glad you came. I didn't wanna die alone, yanno?"

Bumblebee's eyebrows drew together in a deep frown and he reached out, somewhat hesitantly, to touch the old Sector Seven agent's hand. "You should have known we wouldn't let that happen."

"We?"

"The Autobots," Bee answered, without hesitation. "N.E.S.T."

"Why should you care?" Simmons asked.

"You may think we hate you," Bumblebee said, "But we don't. We never did. You've done much for us… in Egypt, in Chicago, and beyond."

"I nearly killed you," Simmons said softly, finally opening his eyes to meet Bumblebee's.

Bumblebee forced down a wince as images from the Hoover Dam surfaced, unbidden in his memory. He shook his head, blond hair falling into his eyes. "That's in the past."

"Still don't change that it happened."

"It does. You didn't know how to deal with us… The only one of us you'd seen before me was _Megatron_, and that's plenty of reason for you to want to freeze me for experiments or kill me on sight, as far as I'm concerned."

Simmons only sighed and looked away, unable to maintain eye contact. Bumblebee touched his arm to regain his attention. "I forgive you."

"You do?"

"Yes. I consider you my comrade," Bee said sincerely. "You are my friend."

Simmon's face scrunched and for a moment, Bumblebee was afraid the man would burst into tears. "I am?"

"You are."

"Thank you," Simmons breathed, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

It was then that Bumblebee knew that he had made the right decision in forgiving the man and also a good decision in coming to see him. He hadn't known that Simmons had been so affected by what had happened those many years ago, even still today.

"All my life," Simmons sighed, looking even more tired now, "I've spent all my life chasing things that were not supposed to exist. And I found everything that I set out to find, but I feel like I've missed something somewhere along the way."

"A family, perhaps?" Bumblebee prompted. Simmons just shook his head, a small, somewhat ironic smile playing on his features.

"Nah, not for me," he said. "Never was much for kids, the only ones I ever had any experience with sicced _you_ on me."

"What is it, then?"

"Ahh," Simmons shook his head, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing."

"Tell me," Bumblebee encouraged, sitting forward to show that he was listening.

Simmons seemed to consider it for a moment, sighing. "I feel like I've spent so much time trying to be famous, and trying to be legendary so that the world will remember me that I forgot, somewhere along the line, what was more important."

"And what is that?"

"Being remembered by those who _actually mattered_," Simmons closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. "Those who saw me as important, even before the world knew Seymour Simmons existed. Before I became famous, before I became a legend."

Bumblebee resisted the urge to roll his eyes and tell Simmons that he really was never all _that_ famous. His lips twitched in a small grin – humans never really changed.

"Let's face it, I was never the friendly guy – still ain't, but there were still people who stuck with me, and not for any other reason than they wanted to," Simmons continued. "I just hope that they, or at least the ones that are still alive, will still think about me from time to time."

"Human emotions are always so strange," Bumblebee said with open honesty.

"Yeah, well. Even we can't understand them sometimes."

"Hmm."

"Don't read too much into it, kid," Simmons said, waving a spotty hand dismissively. "I just wanna know that someone's gonna remember me after I'm gone."

Even after Seymour Simmons died two months later, Bumblebee did.


End file.
